


The Final Will and Testament of the Most Glorious Golden Cabbage Throne

by Selden



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Mild Explosions, Spies, mild plotting revolution, mild violence, morally dubious individuals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-08-01 05:18:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16278458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selden/pseuds/Selden
Summary: A portrait gets disgracefully mistreated, some disguises get seen-through - and singed into the bargain - and two spies at the top of their game decide to play things their way.





	The Final Will and Testament of the Most Glorious Golden Cabbage Throne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alexandria (heartfullofelves)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartfullofelves/gifts).



“And this, Officer Baffle,” said General Atraxis, waving her broad hand towards the new arrival, “is the beauteous Sandrimel Azurana, a portrait-painter of really most remarkable talents. They say she sucks your soul out with her brush!”  
  
“Oh?” Direl Black - currently posing as Petty Officer Diana Baffle, but better known in some circles as Agent 705 - shuffled her papers and stared guilelessly at the General over her wire-rimmed spectacles. “Where does she put it? The soul, I mean.”  
  
This foray was apparently asinine enough to warrant a reply from the artist herself. “On the canvas, of course, you simpering philistine!”  
  
Sandrimel Azurana was indeed beauteous, being possessed – at the moment – of long, swirling black hair, flashing black eyes, and flawless black skin, decorated in places with a few artistic dabs and dots of paint. She was wearing a gown which appeared to be made mostly of aquamarine silk, or possibly something more expensive still. Butterfly wings, perhaps. Where it wasn’t fluttering dramatically, it gave every impression of being painted on. Miraculously, the gown itself was absolutely free from paint.  
  
Of course, as Direl knew perfectly well, Sandrimel Azurana was much better known – by those in the know – as Agent 5-A-90.  
  
Like Direl, she was a spy.  
  
Unlike Direl, she worked for the small principality of Zarsonia, which was a highly disreputable rogue state, with absolutely nothing at all in common with Direl’s home nation of Varoban.  
  
While Zarsonia was a menace to diplomacy, held together with spite and a healthy tradition of aristocratic inbreeding, neighbouring Varoban was a tiny but fierce and noble country, ruled harshly but fairly by a rotating selection of dukes, princes, and regents. Some people might call this a perpetual succession crisis, but Direl rather approved of the arrangement. It kept the nobility on their toes, and besides, she had done some of the rotating herself.  
  
Even Direl had to admit, however, that Varoban and Zarsonia did have one thing in common. The powers-that-be in both countries were exceedingly interested in the existence of the last will and testament of Erlretha the Indecisive, a queen who had – several decades ago – gone through five husbands, seven mistresses, one suspiciously highly-promoted wyvern, and several unsuccessful peace treaties. She had also been the last ruler of the United Empire of Varoban-Zarsonia, an entity whose existence was now a profound embarrassment to the ruling classes of both countries, who had found being forced to work together disquieting in the extreme.  
  
Unfortunately, this opinion was not shared by the common folk of Zarsonia, or indeed Varoban, who looked wistfully back to the days when visiting their neighbours across the Sarkan Pass did not involve filling in reports in triplicate and bribing the border guards.  
  
Still more unfortunately, Erlretha was reputed to have left a will, naming an heir who would have an undisputed claim to the storied Double Throne of the United Empire of Varoban-Zarsonia. The throne in question, in physical terms, looked rather like a gilded cabbage. Symbolically speaking, however, it spelled the end of the good times for any number of aspiring dukes, princes, and regents, in both Zarsonia and Varoban.  
  
Most unfortunately – and pertinently – of all, this last will and testament was reputed to be hidden somewhere in the large, powerful, and distinctly inflexible nation of Girvery. Specifically, in the unprepossessing stronghold of General Atraxis, a woman who, despite her fondness for art and a certain weakness for the finer things in life, was, when it came down to it, just as large, powerful, and inflexible as the nation she served.  
  
Should Direl or Agent 5-A-90 be exposed as enemy spies, they would undoubtedly find themselves discovering just how flexible they were capable of becoming, down in General Atraxis’ rather famous dungeons.

With this in mind, Direl looked Agent 5-A-90 up and down, let her eyes linger on some of her painted-on curves for just one insolent, dangerous, delicious second, and then pasted boring old Diana Baffle back over her face like a particularly fusty mask. “What’s a philistine?” she asked.  
  
“Probably better not to fret about it, Officer Baffle,” observed the General, clapping her on the back with one meaty paw. “You know these artistic types – brilliant, yes, but highly strung."

"Trust me, General Atraxis," said Direl. "I won't fret."  
  
“Good, good. Now, Sandrimel, my dear. Officer Baffle is going to get stuck into the filing system in my quarters. Turns out she’s a whiz with figures and financials and so forth. Which is nothing if not useful, but don’t let her worry you – I know you need the light in there for those last finishing touches on the Work. Officer Baffle will be as quiet as a little brown mouse. Won’t you, Officer Baffle?”  
  
“Yes, General Atraxis.”  
  
“And she won’t get in the way of your work, or block the light from that nice northern exposure, will you, Officer Baffle?”  
  
“No, General Atraxis.”  
  
“I suppose that’s acceptable,” Agent 5-A-90 admitted. Then, just as the General looked away, she _winked_. “Although,” she added, “you know how nervous I get around strangers, Laetitia. Are you quite sure this Officer Baffle has been vetted?”  
  
“Extensively,” said Direl, glaring from behind the General’s shoulder.  
  
“From top to toe,” said General Atraxis. “Do give my people some credit, Sandrimel.”  
  
“Of course, of course,” said Agent 5-A-90. She tapped one perfectly manicured finger against her lower lip.  
  
“Is there some problem, Sandrimel?” the General enquired. “Of course, your art comes first. We can always install Officer Baffle and her accounts in some other room.”  
  
Direl, who had searched most of the stronghold extensively and had spent months inveigling her way into gaining access to the General’s palatial quarters, gritted her teeth.  
  
“No, no.” Agent 5-A-90 flicked her flowing hair, flashed her eyes, and smoothed her butterfly-wing dress down over her hips.  
  
Both Direl and the General watched in awe.  
  
“It’s - it's her bone structure!” Agent 5-A-90 declared. “It may belong to a simpering philistine with all the aesthetic awareness of a bag of cats – so different from you, my dear Laetitia – but it is simply remarkable! I can’t get it out of my head! I must – nay, I _will_ put it to paper!”  
  
Direl and the General blinked at her.  
  
Then, slowly, the General turned to look at Direl. “ _Her_ bone structure?” she said doubtfully. “Really?”  
  
“Yes,” said Direl. “Really?” She appreciated a great many things about her looks – the ability to blend into a crowd; the tendency to slip out of people’s memories like dishwater down a drain; the possibility of looking down a nose which had about it, she had been told, a distinct hint of camel – but bone structure was not one of them. Agent 5-A-90 was bullshitting. She was interfering with Direl’s mission, and, worse, showing every sign of succeeding.  
  
“Really!” said Agent 5-A-90. “So distinctive, so compelling! Come on, Laetitia. It will only be a simple sketch.”  
  
“But,” said the General. “The Work.”  
  
“I will return to your portrait with renewed vigour,” said Agent 5-A-90. “ _After_ I have got this fabulous bone structure out of my system.”  
  
\--  
  
Which was how Direl Black, Agent 705, the Night Phantom, the jewel in the crown of the Varobanian secret services, came to be perched on a chair in the offices of General Atraxis of Girvery, being sketched in elegant charcoal by her opposite number and greatest professional rival, Agent 5-A-90 of Zarsonia.  
  
“I can’t believe you can actually draw,” said Direl. She looked up at the large portrait of General Atraxis, nearly life-size and wearing full dress uniform, which took up most of one corner of the large, high-ceilinged room. “You can’t possibly have painted that, though.”  
  
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Agent 5-A-90 filled in the drawing’s hair with a quick scribble of charcoal, giving the two-dimensional Direl a rather rakish air. “I’m leaving out the spectacles,” she said. “They don’t suit you.”  
  
“Well, that dress sure as hell suits you,” Direl said honestly. “Are you trying to give our dear General Laetitia a heart attack?”  
  
“It mightn’t be such a bad idea if I did,” said Agent 5-A-90 glumly. “You’ve been over every inch of this place except these rooms, and I’ve been over every inch of these rooms. Which,” she added, “took quite some doing, let me tell you.”  
  
They both looked around the well-appointed chambers, which involved a lot of twiddly plasterwork, soft scarlet carpets, and what looked like five different spindly gilt-and-walnut desks, all crowded with paperwork. There was a reason the General had resorted to fishing a likely-looking accountant-type out of the ranks, after all. Filing was not her forte.  
  
“You see the problem?” Agent 5-A-90 plucked off her flowing wig, revealing a head of geometric cornrows, sharp as the blunt lines of her charcoal sketch. The wig landed at a jaunty angle atop an armoire, looking rather like a particularly gothic octopus. Agent 5-A-90 loosened some unseen tie somewhere in the floatiest bits of the butterfly-wing dress, rendering the painted-on bits abruptly much less painted-on, and sighed. “It is possible that offing the General might shake things up enough that some secret cache of documents gets unearthed,” she admitted. “Couldn’t be much more unproductive than what I’ve spent the last month doing.”  
  
“Now, now,” said Direl, leaning back in her uncomfortable gold-and-velvet chair. “You’ve accomplished a great deal, my dear Sandrimel Azurana. That’s General Laetitia to the life, brocade and all. Not to mention the unmistakable look of lust. That’s art, that is.”  
  
“Yeah, _thanks_ ,” said Agent 5-A-90. She glanced over her shoulder at the canvas and shuddered. “Sometimes I can feel its eyes following me around the room,” she confessed. “I don’t know how actual portrait painters manage.”  
  
“They probably have less on their conscience,” Direl suggested. “On average, anyway.” She rolled her shoulders. “So,” she said. “You’re the one who brought me in here – which was going to happen in any case, so I’m not sure why you needed the sketch diversion, but here we are. We doing this?”  
  
She ducked just as she finished speaking. Sure enough, a thin whistle overhead marked the passage of a small stiletto, which buried itself in the flock wallpaper some twenty feet behind her back.  
  
“Oh,” said Agent 5-A-90, “we’re doing this, all right.” She threw another stiletto.  
  
“Where do you keep those things?” Direl dropped sideways to the floor, rolled, and tossed a dozen tiny flash-and-bangs towards Agent 5-A-90’s turquoise-slippered feet.  
  
They went off in a fusillade of tiny, bright-white lights, with a sound like a dozen champagne corks popping in unison.  
  
“Mind the portrait, you idiot!” said Agent 5-A-90, who had taken refuge atop an ebony side-table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “It’s going to be a diplomatic gift for the current duke of Zarsonia, you know. Also, are you trying to bring the entire place in here after us?”  
  
“These are the General’s quarters, darling _,_ ” said Direl, springing across the room and trying for a swift flying kick to Agent 5-A-90’s solar plexus. “We’ve got practically the entire wing to ourselves.”  
  
Agent 5-A-90 pivoted, Direl’s kick glancing off her hipbone, and landed on top of Direl in a flurry of slightly singed butterfly-dress. “What, no garotte this time?”  
  
“I didn’t want to be accused of – ugh – becoming predictable,” said Direl, dodging a flurry of blows to her upper body with limited success. “This,” she added, flicking the mechanism which brought a blade sliding out of her right sleeve, “is my new toy.”  
  
“Not – fuck! – half bad, Officer Baffle.” Agent 5-A-90 had been upright, straddling Direl, but now she lunged down, letting Direl’s wrist-blade pass just a whisker above her braids. “Almost got me, you crazy fucker."  
  
Their faces were so close together that Direl could feel the warmth and moisture of Agent 5-A-90's breath across her lips.  
  
“No,” said Direl, raising her face up just a fraction of an inch, “I’ve got you, all right.”  
  
The kiss, this time, was just as good as it had been six months ago in Varoban, or five months before that, when Direl had been a harmless ambassador’s attaché in Bardovistan and Agent 5-A-90 had been a travelling merchant, hawking dragons’ eggs and cinnabar.  
  
It was just as good as those times, and the times before.  
  
Which meant it was spectacular.  
  
“Aw, fuck,” said Direl, coming up for air, and kissing her way up towards Agent 5-A-90’s ear. “I can’t believe I’m interrupting this.”  
  
“Then why are you?” whispered Agent 5-A-90, licking at Direl’s mouth.  
  
“Because I already dosed you up half a minute ago,” said Direl. “It only takes a scratch.”  
  
Agent 5-A-90 touched the back of her neck with one hand. “Well, fuck,” she said, and fell slowly sideways, her eyes rolling up.  
  
“Not today, unfortunately.” Direl wriggled out from underneath Agent 5-A-90’s comatose form, and patted her uniform back into place. There wasn’t much she could do about her kiss-swollen lips, but, hell, it had been worth it. “You really shouldn’t have shown just how worried you were about the portrait, 5-A-90,” she said quietly. “Rookie mistake.”  
  
Then, moving briskly, she went over and peered closely at the General’s oil-painted visage. The northern exposure really did give a lovely clear light; it only took a matter of minutes for her to make out the faint outline of a thin rectangular package, firmly attached to the canvas and painted over with a portion of the General’s beringed hand holding the swirling hilt of her ceremonial sword. The oil paint was still faintly tacky, but that was hardly an issue.  
  
“Got you,” said Direl, cutting a neat line around the package and pulling it free from the canvas.  
  
“No,” came a voice from behind her, “Got _you_. Don’t move.”  
  
Direl, very sensibly, didn’t.  
  
“Honestly,” said Agent 5-A-90, prodding something very sharp and very cold at the base of Direl’s skull, “I expected better from you, 705. I’ve been building up an immunity to select common and uncommon poisons since I was just a street-rat with a talent for pickpocketing.”  
  
“Well,” said Direl, nettled, “Sue me! I admit I didn’t reckon on Veralian Nightjuice being part of your repertoire.”  
  
“Oh, I can do better than sue you,” said Agent 5-A-90, running the point of her blade slowly down Direl’s spine. “What was that you were saying about fucking?”  
  
“Well, that was before I actually caught a glimpse of this,” said Direl, pivoting around, stamping on Agent 5-A-90’s toes, and jumping backwards out of immediate stabbing range. She held up a slightly draggled piece of parchment, freed from its protective package, and waved it reproachfully. “Forget about fucking,” she said. “Well, for the immediate present, anyway. Doesn’t this mean that we’re both of us fucked?”  
  
Agent 5-A-90’s face fell. “I was hoping you hadn’t actually seen it yet,” she confessed. “And, yes, I’d say it means we’re both pretty fucked. Can you blame me for trying to distract myself from imminent doom with a bit of _actual_ fucking?”  
  
“Not really,” Direl admitted. Moving slowly and cautiously, she began to head over to one of the twiddly little desks. “Truce?” she asked, over one shoulder.  
  
Agent 5-A-90 shrugged, and followed her over. "Truce."  
  
Together, they peered down at the last will and testament of Erlretha the Indecisive, stretched out on the desktop on top of a list of troop allocations and a doodle of a giraffe wearing a top hat.  
  
“And I, Erlretha, queen of Zarsonia, Queen Regent of Varoban, Supreme Empress of the United Empire of Varoban-Zarsonia,” Direl read out, “do hereby let it be known that the heir to the Double Throne is established, from this moment forth, as …” she paused. “How many names did she cross out, here?” she asked.  
  
It was hard to tell. The parchment looked as if it had played host to a party of drunken spiders.  
  
“Forty-seven,” said Agent 5-A-90 dourly. “Trust me, I counted. All of her legitimate children, all of her illegitimate children, and one rather remarkable wyvern. Also, at least six different plucky upstarts and heroic young adventurers. She covered all her bases, did old Erlretha.”  
  
“And then she crossed all of them out,” said Direl.  
  
“Exactly. She came by her moniker honestly, you can say that much for her.”  
  
“They’re never going to satisfied with this,” said Direl slowly. “I mean, once I shiv you once and for all and bring it back to Varoban. Whoever’s actually on the throne at the moment is just going to write their name in there, fast as old queen Erlretha could sit on wyvern dick.”  
  
“Actually,” said Agent 5-A-90, “it was a she-wyvern.”  
  
“Fine, fine. But you get my point.”  
  
“Oh, I do. I can’t say it’s likely to go down particularly differently in Zarsonia,” Agent 5-A-90 admitted. “Why do you think I haven’t already got the thing back there? Since I’m the one who managed to find it, and all.”  
  
“Don’t rub it in.” Direl stretched her back out and sighed. “This is almost as bad as the time we both found the deeds to Opal Palace.”  
  
“After we’d already burned it to the ground?” Agent 5-A-90 smirked. “Good times.”  
  
“Maybe for you,” said Direl. “And also me. But the Margrave of Opal Mountain wasn’t best pleased.”  
  
“Well, no. But the mention of burning does give me an idea.”  
  
“You want to toss it in the fireplace and strike a match?” Direl frowned. “Satisfying, but pretty much a placeholder until someone figures out how to produce a sufficiently fancy-looking forgery.”  
  
“No, you simpering philistine,” said Agent 5-A-90 fondly. “I want to burn down the _System_!”  
  
“Oh, no,” said Direl. “Not again.”  
  
“This won’t be like the April Days rebellion,” said Agent 5-A-90 earnestly. “This will be much more low-key.”  
  
“What, arrange for a bunch of popular leaders from Varoban and Zarsonia to meet up, show them this document – proving that all the possible heirs to the Double Throne are disinherited – and then sit back and wait for them to foment revolution?” Direl wrinkled her nose. “It will be chaos.”  
  
“Exactly!” Agent 5-A-90 grinned. “Assassinations, double-crossings, back-stabbings, turmoil in high places. You know you love it. And, anyway, the Double Throne looks like a cabbage at the best of times. Nobody should be sitting on that thing, not if it unites all the nations under the sun in glorious harmony.”  
  
Direl sniffed.  
  
Agent 5-A-90 bumped her shoulder against Direl’s. “We might even manage to wrest a transitional democracy out of the wreckage!” she said. “And, at the very least, there will be any amount of scurrilous goings on.”  
  
“Well.” Direl let herself lean again Agent 5-A-90, just for a moment. She was very warm and solid, and, underneath all the aquamarine floatiness, absolutely covered in knives. “I suppose it is almost a year since I last disposed of an unsuitable candidate for the throne of Varoban.”  
  
“Exactly!” Agent 5-A-90 picked up the parchment and tucked it into the bodice of her butterfly dress. It vanished as mysteriously and completely as the knives. “I can’t believe I was fretting about this,” she said. “You always clear my head.”  
  
“Yeah, well. Me and my remarkable bone structure.”  
  
“You can say that again. I can’t believe I finally got to draw you, on top of everything!” Agent 5-A-90 carefully retrieved the the charcoal sketch, folded it, and tucked it away with the parchment.  
  
Direl watched her. “You mean,” she said casually, “this is an ambition you’ve been harbouring for quite some time? To draw my … bone structure?”  
  
Agent 5-A-90 nodded. “Of course.”  
  
“And it wouldn’t have anything to do with enabling you to plaster my likeness all over your despicable little country, thus impeding my working life considerably?”  
  
“Well, it is just possible that may have been a consideration,” Agent 5-A-90 admitted. “But, mostly, I just wanted to draw you.” She took one last look around the ruined office, and jumped up on the sill of the wide north-facing window. Outside, the slate-covered lower roofs of the General’s stronghold stretched out towards the crenelated outer walls, and the long road which led to Varoban and, beyond that, Zarsonia. The evening was drawing in, streaking the sky with red and pink and gold. “I hope Laetitia doesn’t take this too hard,” she remarked.  
  
“You do realise,” said Direl pleasantly, “that I’m going to get that sketch off you if that’s the last thing I do?”  
  
“Oh, really?” Agent 5-A-90 kicked the window open. “I never would have guessed.”  
  
As she swung herself out, landing crouched on the roof below, Direl caught the edge of her smile.  
  
Agent 5-A-90's voice floated up to where Direl stood before the window, sounding exceptionally smug. “You’ll have to get this dress off me first.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” said Direl, vaulting out of the window and setting out after her, across the sloping, jutting roofs, “5-A-90, consider yourself thoroughly fucked.”  
  
“Oh, I hope so.” Agent 5-A-90 looked back, her dress streaming out glorious against the sunset. “It’s quite a while,” she said, “before we get back home.”

 


End file.
